Bed of Roses tbq-2

by Nora Roberts

  When she checked the time, she dashed back up the stairs. She needed to wash up and start on dinner, especially since she’d decided to add an appetizer to the menu.

  Dirty, sweaty, and still pissed off due to the disappearing plumber and a rookie building inspector with an attitude, Jack turned toward the rear of his offices.

  He wanted a shower, a beer, maybe a handful of aspirin. If the general contractor wasn’t going to fire the asshole plumber—who also happened to be his brother-in-law—then he could explain the delay to the client. And he could take on the building inspector who decided to throw his weight around because a doorway was a damn seven-eighths of an inch off.

  Okay, maybe the aspirin, the shower, then the drink.

  Maybe that would smooth out a day that had begun with a call at six A.M. from a client with a tape measure who’d gone ballistic because the framing for his service bar came in at five feet eight inches instead of six feet.

  Not that he blamed the client. He’d felt ballistic himself. Six feet on the plans meant six feet on the job, not whatever the sub decided would do.

  And, Jack thought as he tried to roll the worst of the tension out of his shoulders, the day had just gone downhill from there. If he was going to put in a twelve-hour day, at least he wanted to finish up feeling he’d accomplished something instead of just riding around the goddamn county putting out fires.

  He made the last turn, telling himself to be grateful he was home, where, since the office was now closed, nobody—please God—was going to ask him to fix anything, negotiate anything, or argue about anything.

  When he spotted Emma’s car he struggled to think past the headache. Had he mixed things up? Had they planned to meet in town, go from there?

  No, no, dinner, maybe a movie—which he’d intended to switch to carry-out, possibly a DVD, and that after he’d had a chance to cool off and settle down. Except he’d forgotten to call her about that as he’d been hip-deep in crises and complaints.

  But if she was in town somewhere, he could just . . .

  His mind switched gears as he noticed his back door open to the screen, and the pots of flowers beside it. He sat where he was a moment, then tossed his sunglasses on the dash. When he stepped out of the truck, he heard the music pouring through the screen door.

  Where the hell did the plants come from? he wondered as fresh irritation banged against an already full-blown headache. And why the hell was his door open?

  He wanted air-conditioning, a cool shower, and five damn minutes to shake off the worst of the day. Now he had flowers he’d have to remember to water, music blasting, and somebody who’d require attention and conversation in his house.

  He trudged up the steps, scowled at the plants, pushed through the screen door.

  And there she was, singing along with the radio—which was blasting through his aching head, cooking something on his stove when he’d set his system on take-out pizza, and his spare keys sat on the counter beside a vase of enormous sunflowers that made his eyes throb.

  She shook the frying pan with one hand, reached for a glass of wine with the other—then saw him.

  “Oh!” She laughed when her hand jerked on the handle of the pan. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Not surprising, as you’re entertaining the neighborhood with . . . Jesus, is that ABBA?”

  “What? Oh, the music. It is loud.” She gave the pan another shake before adjusting the heat under it. With an easy side step, she picked up the remote, lowered the volume on the stereo. “Cooking music. I thought I’d surprise you with a ready-made meal. These scallops just need another minute. The sauce is already done, so you can have a little something right away. How about a glass of wine?”

  “No. Thanks.” He reached over her head into the cabinet for a bottle of aspirin.

  “Hard day.” In sympathy, she rubbed a hand down his arm as he fought open the bottle. “Michelle told me. Why don’t you sit down for a minute, get your bearings?”

  “I’m filthy. I need a shower.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.” She rose on her toes to brush a light kiss on his lips. “I’ll get you some ice water.”

  “I can get it.” He moved past her to the refrigerator. “Michelle gave you the key?”

  “She said you were stuck out on a job, and having a bad day. I had the food out in the car, so . . .” She shook the pan again, turned off the flame. “I’ve got a flank steak marinating. Red meat ought to help your headache. You can just clean up and relax. Or I can hold dinner awhile if you want to stretch out until you feel better.”

  “What is all this, Emma?” Even at the lower volume, the music scraped against his nerves. He grabbed the remote, turned it off. “Did you haul those pots up here?”

  “Chip did the heavy work. I had the best time picking out the urns, the plants.” She sprinkled the scallops with a mixture of cilantro, garlic, and lime, poured on the sauce she’d prepared. “They really pop against the house, don’t they? I wanted to do something to thank you for New York, and when inspiration hit, I juggled a few things and hit the road.”

  She set the empty bowl in the sink, turned. Her smile faded. “And I miscalculated, didn’t I?”

  “It’s been a lousy day, that’s all.”

  “Which I’ve added to, clearly.”

  “Yes. No.” He pressed his fingers to the drill trying to bore through his temple. “It’s been a bad day. I just need to smooth out some. You should’ve called if you wanted to . . . do this.”

  Without thinking, out of sheer habit, he picked up the spare keys and shoved them in his pocket.

  He might as well have slapped her.

  “Don’t worry, Jack, I didn’t hang anything of mine in a closet, put anything in a drawer. My toothbrush is still in my bag.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My trespassing only went as far as the kitchen, and it won’t happen again. I didn’t run out and make a copy of your precious keys, and I hope you won’t give Michelle any grief for giving them to me.”

  “Give me a small break, Emma.”

  “Give you a break? Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have to tell her I didn’t have a key? To know we’ve been sleeping together since April and I can’t be trusted.”

  “It has nothing to do with trust. I just never—”

  “Bullshit, Jack. Just bullshit. Every time I stay here—which is very rare because it’s your space, I have to make sure I don’t leave so much as a stray hairpin behind because, dear God, what’s next? An actual hairbrush? A shirt? Before you know it I’ll actually feel welcome here.”

  “You are welcome here. Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Too bad, because I want to fight with you. You’re irritated because I’m here, because I invaded your space, made myself at home. And that tells me I’m wasting my time, I’m wasting my feelings, because I deserve better than that.”

  “Look, Emma, all this just caught me at a bad time.”

  “It’s not the time, Jack, not just the time. It’s always. You don’t let me in here because that’s too close to a commitment for you.”

  “Jesus, Emma, I am committed. There’s no one else. There hasn’t been anyone else since I touched you.”

  “It’s not about someone else. It’s about you and me. It’s about wanting me, but only on your terms, on your—your blueprint,” she said waving her hands in the air. “As long as we stick to that, no problem. But that’s not going to work for me anymore. It’s not going to work when I can’t pick up a quart of milk for you or leave a damn lipstick on your bathroom counter. Or give you some damn plants without pissing you off.”

  “Milk? What milk? Jesus Christ, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s not going to work when cooking you a fucking meal is like a criminal act.” She snatched up the plate of scallops, tossed it into the sink with a crash of stoneware.

  “Okay, that’s eno
ugh.”

  “No, it isn’t enough.” She whirled, shoved him back with both hands as tears of anger and heartbreak clouded her eyes, thickened her voice. “And I’m not going to settle for what isn’t enough. I’m in love with you, and I want you to love me. I want a life with you. Marriage and babies and a future. So this? This isn’t enough, not nearly. It turns out you were right, Jack. Absolutely right. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

  “What? How? Wait.”

  “But don’t worry, no need to run for the hills. I’m responsible for my own feelings, my own needs, my own choices. And I’m done here. I’m done with this.”

  “Hold it.” He wondered his head didn’t explode. Maybe it already had. “Wait a damn minute so I can think.”

  “Time’s up, thinking’s over. Don’t touch me now,” she warned when he started toward her. “Don’t even think about putting a hand on me. You had your chance. I’d have given you everything I had. If you’d needed more, I’d have found it, and given you that. It’s the way I love. It’s the only way I know how. But I can’t give where it’s not wanted and valued. Where I’m not.”

  “Be pissed off.” He snapped it out. “Break dishes. But don’t stand there and tell me I don’t want you, don’t value you.”

  “Not the way I want or need. And trying not to want, Jack? Trying not to love you the only way I know how to love? It’s breaking my heart.” She grabbed her bag. “Stay away from me.”

  He slapped a hand on the screen door to stop her. “I want you to sit down. You’re not the only one with things to say.”

  “I don’t care what you want. I’m done caring. I said stay away from me.”

  She looked up at him then. It wasn’t temper or heat in her eyes. Those he would’ve ignored until they’d burned this out. But he had no power against her pain.

  “Emma. Please.”

  She only shook her head, and, pushing past him, ran to her car.

  She didn’t know how she managed to dam the tears. She only knew she couldn’t see through them and she had to get home. She needed home. Her hands wanted to shake so she gripped the wheel tighter. Every breath hurt. How was that possible? How could the simple act of drawing breath burn? She heard herself moan, and pressed her lips together to hold back the next. It sounded like a wounded animal.

  She wouldn’t let herself feel that. Not now. Not yet.

  Ignoring the cheerful ringtones of her phone, she kept her eyes focused on the road.

  The dam collapsed; the tears broke through when she turned into the drive. She swiped at them, a fast, impatient hand until she’d navigated along the curve, parked.

  Now the trembling came, so that she shook as she stumbled from the car, up the walk. She made it inside, safe, home, before the first sob took her.

  “Emma?” Parker’s voice carried down the stairs. “What are you doing back so early? I thought you were—”

  Through the flood of tears, Emma saw Parker rush down the stairs. “Parker.”

  Then there were arms around her, strong and tight. “Oh, Emma. Oh, baby. Come on now, come with me.”

  “What’s all this commotion? What’s . . . Is she hurt?” Like Parker, Mrs. Grady hurried forward.

  “Not that way. I’m going to take her upstairs. Can you call Mac?”

  “I’ll see to it. There now, lamb.” Mrs. Grady stroked a hand down Emma’s hair. “You’re home now. We’ll take care of everything. Go on with Parker.”

  “I can’t stop. I can’t make it stop.”

  “You don’t have to stop.” With an arm around Emma’s waist, Parker led her upstairs. “Cry all you want, as long as you need. We’ll go up to the parlor. To our place.”

  As they started up to the third floor, Laurel bolted down. Saying nothing, she simply wrapped an arm around Emma from the other side.

  “How could I be so stupid?”

  “You weren’t,” Parker murmured. “You aren’t.”

  “I’ll get her some water,” Laurel said, and Parker nodded as she led Emma to the couch.

  “It hurts, so much. So much. How can anyone stand it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  When they sat, Emma curled up, laid her head in Parker’s lap.

  “I had to get home. I just had to get home.”

  “You’re home now.” Laurel sat on the floor, pushed tissues into Emma’s hand.

  Burying her face in them, Emma sobbed out the pain and grief throbbing in her chest, twisting in her belly. Raw sobs scorched her throat until there were none left. Still, tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “It feels like some horrible illness.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Like I may never be well again.”

  “Drink a little water. It’ll help.” Parker eased her up. “And these aspirin.”

  “It’s like a terrible flu.” Emma sipped water, took a breath, then swallowed the aspirin Parker handed her. “The kind where even when it’s over, you’re weak and sick and helpless.”

  “There’s tea and soup.” Like Laurel, Mac sat on the floor. “Mrs. G brought it up.”

  “Not yet. Thanks. Not yet.”

  “This wasn’t just a fight,” Laurel said.

  “No. Not just a fight.” Exhausted, she rested her head on Parker’s shoulder. “Is it worse, do you think, since it’s my own fault?”

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself.” Laurel squeezed Emma’s leg. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I’m not letting him off the hook, believe me. But I got myself into it. And tonight, especially tonight, I worked myself up to wanting—expecting,” she corrected, “things that weren’t going to happen. I know him, and still I jumped off the cliff.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Mac asked her.

  “Yeah.”

  “Take a little tea first.” Laurel held out the cup.

  After one sip, Emma blew out a breath. “There’s whiskey in here.”

  “Mrs. G said to drink it. It’ll help.”

  “Tastes like medicine. And I guess it is.” Emma took another sip. “I crossed his lines, I guess you could say. I don’t find those lines acceptable. So we’re done. We have to be done because I can’t feel this way.”

  “What are the lines?” Parker asked.

  “He doesn’t make room.” Emma shook her head. “I wanted to do something for him. Part of it was certainly for me, but I wanted to do something special. So I went by the nursery,” she began.

  When she finished the tea, the ache throbbed behind a thin cushion. “I had this moment, when I had to tell Michelle I didn’t have a key. Part of me stepped back, said: Stop.”

  “What the hell for?” Laurel demanded.

  “And that’s what the rest of me said. We were together, a couple. And under that, good friends. What could be wrong with going into his place to surprise him with dinner? But I knew. That other part of me knew. Maybe it was a test. I don’t know. I don’t care. And maybe it was worse—the buildup, the crash—because I’d run into Rachel Monning at the bookstore. Do you remember her, Parker? I babysat her.”

  “Yes, vaguely.”

  “She’s getting married.”

  “You babysat for her?” Laurel held up her hands. “They’re letting twelve-year-olds get married?”

  “She’s in college. Graduating next year, followed by her wedding. Which she wants here, by the way. And when I got over the genuine shock, all I could think was, I want that. I want what this girl I babysat has. Damn it, I want what I see on her face. All that joy, that confidence, that eagerness to start a life with the man I love. Why shouldn’t I want that? Why aren’t I entitled to that? Wanting marriage is as legitimate as not wanting it.”

  “Preaching to the choir,” Mac reminded her.

  “Well, I do want it. I want the promise and the work and the children and all of it. All of it. I know I want the fairy tale, too. Dancing in the moonlit garden, but that’s just . . . Well, it’s like a bouquet or a beautiful cake. It’s a symbol. I want what it symboli
zes. He doesn’t.” She leaned back, closed her eyes a moment. “Neither of us is wrong. We just don’t want the same thing.”

  “Did he say that? That he doesn’t want what you want?”

  “He was angry to find me in his house,” she said to Parker. “Not even angry. Worse. Annoyed. I’d been presumptuous.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Mac muttered.

  “Well, I had presumed. I presumed he’d be pleased to see me, to have me willing to fuss over him a bit after he’d had a long, hard day. I had my copy of Truly, Madly, Deeply with me. We joked about doing a double feature so he could see why I loved it, and we’d pair it up with Die Hard.”

  “Alan Rickman.” Laurel nodded.

  “Exactly. I had sunflowers, and the planters—God they’re really beautiful—and I’d nearly finished making the appetizer when he came in. I just bubbled along for a while. Let me get you some wine, why don’t you relax? God! What a moron. Then it got through, loud and clear. He . . . picked up the spare keys, and put them in his pocket.”

  “That’s cold,” Laurel said with quiet fury. “That’s fucking cold.”

  “His keys,” Emma stated. “His right. So I told him what I thought, what I felt, and that I was finished trying not to want and not to feel. I told him I was in love with him. And all he could really say to that is to give him a minute to think.”

  “There’s your moron.”

  Emma nearly managed a smile at Mac’s disgusted tone. “I got the ‘caught him off guard, wasn’t expecting.’ Even the ‘caught me at a bad time.’ ”

  “Oh my God.”

  “That was before I told him I was in love with him, but it doesn’t matter. So I ended it, and I walked out. It hurts. I think it’s going to hurt a really long time.”

  “He called,” Mac told her.

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “Figured that. He wanted to make sure you were here, that you got home. I’m not taking his side, believe me, but he sounded pretty shaken up.”